


Paradise Lost

by pseudohymns (Snowpuffson)



Series: But Not Forsaken [1]
Category: Gangsta. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Baggage, Homelessness, Unresolved Emotional Tension, emotional aftermath of THE incident, retelling of the timeline, wallace arcangelo - Freeform, worick struggles with the past, young worick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 16:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17748980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowpuffson/pseuds/pseudohymns
Summary: It feels like they’ve been running for hours, feet pounding pavement but night approaching at an alarming speed. Wallace lags behind, his legs tired from running with the weight of his grief. His face is burning, eye exploding with pain. Nic’s palm is sliced open from grabbing his own blade with bare hands. The trail of blood following them reads like their own personal brand of breadcrumbs.The irony, though, is that they can never go back.





	Paradise Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all, welcome to my benriya ficlet, part of the series But Not Forsaken. 
> 
> Basically more pain and angst for our naughty handymen.

They had their own language and it didn’t always involve talking. Sometimes it was just a glance or seeing the other’s eyes and knowing, as if reading minds, what he was thinking. Other times they spoke in codes. “You dummy” meant “my friend”, just like “I fell down” had an entirely different meaning.

 

Their friendship had been forged in anguish, in betrayal and blood. And in this world, they only had each other.

 

Worwick still remembers the days back when he wasn’t Worwick at all. The days when he was still Wallace. He remembers sitting together at the table, watching Nic write dutifully in his notebook of scribbled alphabets and names. Chicken scratch, all of it, but there was something so warm and endearing about the way Nicolas worked. Something real, intimate, which made this warmth spread through his chest, all the way down to his fingertips.

 

The feeling of loneliness began to melt away. Suddenly, it wasn’t about waiting for class to be over so he would be spared another trite lesson—it was about scampering off to the library and hiding behind bookshelves with his _friend_ , as he read to Nic and they learned sign language together. It was about smoking behind trees in the backyard and laughing until he almost cried, because shedding tears from the burn of smoke in his eyes was better than tears from closed fists.

 

And of course, there were times that felt like the world had stopped turning. The feeling of waiting by the fence, pressed against the cold and dirty bars, watching as bodies were hauled away after the riots. Waiting in anticipation with the feeling of fear in his throat and panic in his heart, that the next body bag he saw would be small enough for a child mercenary. He wished he could forget the times he would see Nicolas and couldn’t even keep count of the new bruises and broken skin.

 

There were times when listening to Nicolas use his voice was painful, because it only served as a reminder that Nic was deaf as compensation for something he never asked for or deserved in the first place.

 

Just a body guard. Just following orders and nothing more. The bruises on his face, his arms, they happened because he was a Twilight, right? And Twilights…well…they were monsters, weren’t they?

 

So why did Wallace’s heart break as he looked upon Nic’s bruises and thought to himself “we’re the same”. Wallace never corrected himself, even when thinking, “we share a secret, we know each other’s suffering.”

 

Then, there are bittersweet memories. Ones where it’s grey and raining, but he’s still running toward Nic with a handful of Celebrer, eyes filled with hope and so much happiness. He explained that they didn’t have to worry anymore because their troubles would be long gone. He had just tied their fates together indefinitely with the universal language of cold cash. They would be partners until the end…until Nic’s end.

 

Except, Wallace’s happiness was surprisingly met with the saddest smile he had ever seen. The child mercenary looked upon Wallace with defeated and empty eyes, an image that would forever be committed to memory, burned into his mind.

 

“…so let’s—Nic, what’s wrong?” played over and over in his head. He should have known the answer, he shouldn’t have had to ask.  

 

The trouble is, dreams are only dreams until they’re achieved. Then reality sets in, and you find out that your dream is far, _far_ from perfect. That in fact, miscommunications _do_ still happen, just like mistakes, and the loneliness you thought disappeared can still be right there waiting for you. That being together can still mean being alone. Wallace learned that they were never speaking the same language after all.

 

He was free, and Nic was…well…

 

They had never been living in a world of their own because he was a normal and Nic was a Twilight, and it was doomed from the very start. And finally, on _that_ night, Wallace’s dream turned into his own hellish nightmare.

 

*

 

It feels like they’ve been running for hours, feet pounding pavement but night approaching at an alarming speed. Wallace lags behind, his legs tired from running with the weight of his grief. His face is burning, eye exploding with pain. Nic’s palm is sliced open from grabbing his own blade with bare hands. The trail of blood following them reads like their own personal brand of breadcrumbs. 

 

The irony, though, is that they can never go back.   

 

When they get a safe distance away, Wallace slows his pace. His chest feels like it’s about to burst, he feels dizzy and heavy all at once, like he’s going to throw up. 

 

Actually, he does just that.

 

 He drops to the ground in fetal position, coughs and starts puking his guts up. He’s glad Nic can’t hear the guttural noises from simultaneous vomiting and crying.

 

 The young Twilight slowly walks over to Wallace and squats down near him. He looks upon him with the same face as always—expressionless, void, empty. And when Wallace feels a hand on his shoulder, small and steady, he wonders if what just happened has affected the Twilight at all. The possibility that it _hadn’t_ only makes him tremble with more rage. 

 

“Don’t fucking _touch_ me!” Wallace shrieks. The other kid recoils, removes his hand promptly from Wallace’s shoulder. He’s sure it’s because the Twilight can feel him shaking, seething with disgust and confusion. 

 

“What—What a-are we going to do now?” Wallace tries to pick himself up off the ground, he tries to compose himself enough to think straight. 

 

“Keep going.” Nic replies using his broken voice, unsure if Wallace would be able to see signs through the pain and the darkness of nightfall. 

 

Wallace plays it on repeat in his mind. _Right, we keep going. We keep going. We…keep going?_  

 

Go where? They’ve been running for what feels like days with nothing to show for it, no closer to food or shelter or relief. No closer to getting his left eye back or to undoing the fucking misery that unfolded in the last few hours. 

 

Wallace continues to walk with his head down, bile in his stomach, churning with every throb of his former left eye. 

 

Nic follows close behind him. 

 

They take refuge in an abandoned church along their path. The wooden slats on the floor are broken and splintered, giving way to their weight and cracking under their feet. The boys are exhausted and dripping wet from the rain, and Wallace hasn’t been able to look at Nic for over an hour without wanting to throw up again. He makes his way down the pews and lights a few candles. The church is small, run-down…creepy. It’s dusty in every corner and Wallace can hear rats—at least he thinks they’re rats—scurrying away from the light. Nothing like home, although home was also cold and empty and filled with nothing but rats.

 

 Maybe they never really left.

 

Wallace takes over one corner, rocking back and forth in effort to self soothe. He’s still dripping from the rain, his eye socket filled with blood, and his heart jumps when he hears lightning strike, loud and angry in the night sky.

 

 Nic, of course, hears nothing but he feels the vibrations through the ground, smells the electricity in the air. And like always, he sees everything with hawk-like precision, enough to catch Wallace looking keyed up. 

 

He cautiously approaches and sits near the blonde.

 

Wallace doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn to face Nic, he doesn’t even breathe—can’t breathe—because the pain is burning through his skull and he thinks he’s going to be sick again.  

 

But he sees something dark pooling at his feet and realizes Nic’s hands are still bleeding…a lot.

 

“Y-your hand…” he says, voice rough from sobbing and screaming and burnt from bile.

 

Wallace rips off a piece of his shirt sleeve and grabs at Nic’s hands. He handles them sloppily—not on purpose—and feels the Twilight’s calloused fingers contrast beneath the softness of the cloth.

 

“Why, Nic?” he asks in barely a whisper with so much grief. So much despair. He chokes down tears and squeezes Nic’s hand before he’s able to pull it away. Squeezes right into that ripped flesh and wonders if it stings. If their blood bleeds the same.

 

They stay like this, holding each other for a few moments before another stroke of lightning announces itself.   

 

“I thought—I thought we were _friends_! Why, Nicolas? _Why_!” 

 

Wallace _can’t_ choke it down, not anymore. He feels the soft pitter patter of hot, wet, drops on his hand—their hands—and knows, deep down, some questions have no answers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
